


Underneath the Masks

by Terpischoria



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-05 11:43:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terpischoria/pseuds/Terpischoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daud's Whalers struck fear into the hearts of all those living in Dunwall. The masked assassins were methodical, ruthless and played with dark magic like it was a toy. Here are the accounts of the men underneath those masks, the ones who swore to follow Daud no matter what.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They were late.

Thomas resisted the urge to tip his head upwards, to once more survey the baleful moon that hung low in the sky over Dunwall. Sure, it looked breathtaking, but that was the last thing he needed right now. Distractions would only make the business at hand even riskier.

If only he hadn't been a virtuous fool.

Thomas had come to the city three years ago, from Morley. In that time, he'd carved out a nice little niche as a man who got things done. The same talents that had served him in the villages and moors of his homeland were doing him a world of good here, on the cobblestone streets of the city. A man needed to eat, drink and sleep, after all. So in between doing those things, he found himself taking on contracts. Mostly gangs who were too chickenshit or too incompetent to get something for themselves. But occasionally a shady noble of one kind or another wanted petty revenge on someone else, and they paid extremely well. So he'd prospered for a time.

Unfortunately in this last run, he'd come down with a bad case of conscience. The barrels behind him on the cart had been heavy, but they'd been even heavier weighing down on his mind. From the start, he'd known this contract to be bad news. He should have just pulled out and found a few aristocrats with big grudges and big bank accounts.

Well, he was here now, and wishing wasn't going to change that. He'd just have to keep his wits about him and pray that the boys from Bottle Street were as dumb as they looked.

Speaking of which, a brawny man in a tweed overcoat swaggered around a lamppost about twenty metres away and leaned against it, attempting nonchalance and failing miserably. "Evening, stranger, "he drawled. "Cold night for a-"

"Just go tell your boss the exchange is ready, "Thomas said, tersely cutting him off. He was in no mood for their shit. His hackles were already raised, and the shortsword strapped to his hip felt entirely too far away for his liking. He would rather have it in his hand.

Throwing him a glare, the man turned back around the corner. Muffled speaking ensued, one voice high and complaining, the other low and even. When the former started rising to a crescendo, the latter cut him off a harsh snarling sound that a wolfhound would have balked at. Thomas blanched. So he would be dealing with him tonight. Just wonderful.

Five men came out of the darkness, burly specimens who looked like they dined on nothing but whale blubber and dark wine. With the exception of their front man, who'd been verbally slapped by Thomas, all were sporting ugly grins on uglier faces. But they were Outsider-damned milkmaid beauties compared to their leader.

A nasty rash covered one side of his face, the skin unhealthy and peeling away. The other was dark and mottled from a burn scar, and gave his right eye a perpetually rabid look. It swivelled in the harsh lamplight to look at him. Thomas fought back a derisive snort: didn't these cretins realise that if they kept trying to put fire in things, they'd get burned? And that ain't a damned euphemism, either.

Ben the Brand folded his arms and pursed his chapped lips. "Thomas. A pleasure as always." His vocal cords had been damaged after all the screaming he'd done when the accident happened, and what had once been a gravelly bass tone was now a sibilant hiss. It sounded like he was keeping a snake in his throat. He keeps plenty of snakes about him, too. All of them looked pretty fucking eager for violence.

But that wasn't his way, so Thomas nodded tightly. "Pleasure." He stepped to one side, ignored the way the Bottle Street boys all reached for their cudgels and waved at his ill-gotten gains. "Here it is, as agreed. Give me my fee and we can all get out of the cold."

It was cold: the bitter wind snuck in through the seams of his old coat and raised goosebumps. But it was colder in the eyes of the Brand, who smiled thinly. "This all of it, then?"

Somewhere, in a small cellar below an artist's studio owned by a painter who owed Thomas a favour, the answer lay. Thomas answered with a straight face. "Yes. All of it."

"Uh-huh." The Brand walked forward, until he was barely ten metres away from Thomas. "You met Vennick, didn't you?"

Their mutual contact. "Yeah. Maybe."

"You did." There was no doubt in the Brand's voice. He stated it like a fact. "'Cause he said there were eight barrels in the Atherton estate. I count five."

Thomas shrugged indifferently. "Not from what I saw. I saw five, I got five. I can't take what's not there, Brand." He leaned against the cart, but kept his hand on the shortsword.

The Brand just stood there, looked at him with a cocked head. Almost sadly. Then he murmured, "You're not making this easy, Thomas. I thought we could trust one another."

"Which would explain why you brought your back-up, "Thomas said sardonically. "Now are we done pussyfooting around in this reek or can you give me my damned money and we call it quits?"

There was no warning as the Brand roared with anger and surged towards him. The man was like a damned mountain. Thomas drew his sword with a single fluid movement and swung. The tip carved a bloody ripple along the Brand's muscular forearm, and he reeled back with a squeal. His voice, now a high falsetto, whined at him. "You little fuck-"

The Bottle Street boys weren't idle. Yelling and cursing, they came at him.

With a savage shove, Thomas unlatched the back of the cart. The wine barrels went careering towards the oncoming gang members. One smashed soundly into a man's ankle and sent him to the cobbles screeching. Another tripped a man up, and when he got up again three of his teeth were missing. The charge slowed as the boys found the narrow street filled with rolling oak.

And in a matter of seconds, Thomas was upon them.

The front man made an undisciplined swing with his cudgel, and was promptly skewered by Thomas. "Idiot, "he muttered, as the man expired noisily and toppled off the blade. Pivoting to the right, he dodged a boot but struck his head on the concrete wall. Pain flared, stunning him. He stumbled away to one side, and was sent sprawling to the ground as another man tackled him.

Spitting and snarling like a mad animal, he smelled the faint whiff of cheap aftershave and dock water as a fist slammed into his cheek. He felt something break, but kept his mind in a cold state. Realising his shortsword wasn't in his hand anymore, he grabbed the dagger he kept in his belt lining and shoved it between the man's ribs. He gagged, and rolled off Thomas.

Thomas made to jump up, to keep fighting, but then a shadow fell over him and he groggily the man with a broken ankle pointing a crossbow at his face. "Try it, you hagfish, "the man breathed, pain filling every syllable. "Just try it."

Thomas did not. He heard the Brand growl, "Get the bastard on his feet."

Rough hands grabbed him and shoved him upwards. Blearily, he wondered when the last time was he'd gotten a roll with someone. The Golden Cat? He'd pretended to be some rich young duellist, and had spent a few pleasurable hours with a young fellow named Sebastian before the madame had ejected him. Well, that was probably the last time he'd get laid. Judging from the way things were going. He'd killed two, but the Brand was still alive, and two of his cronies. Thomas was good, but not that good.

The Brand stood before him, nursing his bleeding arm, and spat in his face. Thomas felt the creamy saliva work its way down his face, and twitched. "This isn't my day."

Hissing furiously, the Brand seized his head and twisted it viciously to one side. "You try to steal from us? You try to fuck us over? You won't have any more days again after this," he whispered loathingly in Thomas' ear. "We're giving your carcass to the river krusts. When you see the Outsider, tell him this." A knife point under his chin, pricking open the skin. "Don't fuck with the Bottle Street-"

There was a sound, halfway between the whoosh of a candle flame being extinguished and the noise fabric made when it was torn. He must have been hallucinating, because he thought he saw ribbons of black air manifest from the air into the shape of a-

A man in a red coat stepped behind the Brand and neatly slit his throat with a heavy blade. Gurgling, the ganger dropped to the ground and sprawled at Thomas' feet. The man gave Thomas a toothy smile. "Gang. I'm guessing."

The last two members of the Brand's little posse shouted in shock, then rage. One made to stab the man in the chest, but he whipped up his arm and a green dart fired from his wrist. It embedded itself in the man's cheek, and after a few seconds of turning the colour of a hagfish, he fell to the ground, making carking noises.

Yelping, the last member ran into the dark at the end of the street. Thomas made to go after him, but the man in the red coat held up a hand. "Wait. Listen."

Right on cue, the terrified shrieks of the last Bottle Street boy filled the air, bouncing off the narrow walls. The sound of a blade plunging into something soft, and a final, wheezing sigh.

Thomas swung to look at the man in the coat. Now that he wasn't on the verge of getting killed, he took a moment to size him up. A craggy face, with some nasty scars. Serkonan, he would guess, from the shape of his nose and mouth. Handsome, too. Stifling that line of thought, he bowed low. "Thank you, stranger." Talking made his mouth hurt, and he grimaced. "Bastards almost got me. I'm Thomas."

The man shrugged. "We were passing by. Thought you could use the help." He reached down, and pressed the shortsword back into Thomas' hand. "You'd want something better than that."

"Yeah. I was planning on it." Thomas looked down at the bodies, and sighed. "There goes my commission."

His saviour shrugged again. "You walked away from it. I'd say you won."

Thomas was about to argue that point, something about how rushing in to save unwary smugglers probably didn't pay all that well, when he heard movement and turned. The man in the coat held up a hand. "It's fine."

Another man in a red coat swaggered towards them. Thomas was unable to see her face. He was wearing one of the masks that the whalers used to protect their faces from the fumes and such. He frowned. "Who are you two?"

"Daud." The man gestured to the new arrival. "This is Billie."

"Lurk, "the second man piped, and unloosened the ties that held the mask in place. Thomas was shocked to see a woman, not a man, underneath that visage. Her dark skin shone in the lamplight, and she gazed at him flatly. "It's Billie Lurk."

"Billie Lurk. My second in command. And protégé."

"But…" Thomas had a whirlwind of questions that needed answering. This night couldn't possibly get any stranger. "I've never seen you two before. Which gang are you part of?"

"We're not."

"Then…do you work for the Abbey?"

The one called Billie Lurk laughed, and Daud threw her a glare. When she'd stopped, he shook his head and said, "We've come from different places. We're looking to survive this city. Maybe right a few wrongs while we're here. It depends on who takes us on."

Something told Thomas that Daud was unaccustomed to speaking, and that it had remarkable for him to share this much. Thomas nodded, long and slow. Thought about it. Thought about how he'd been running ragged for months, forced to do business with backstabbing crooks like the Bottle Street gang and the Hatters. How he'd finally let conscience get the best of him.

Daud and Billie were killers. But so was he. Plus, they'd saved his life. He owed them that at least.

So he squared himself up to Daud, and asked, "Mind if I come along? You two interest me. Also…" He hesitated, then pushed through. "I've never seen anyone do that before." Appearing from nowhere, tatters of black air…

Daud's mouth twitched. "Few have. But I know someone very special. And if you stay with us, you might share in his…" Another grimace. "Gift. It's not for everyone."

Thomas shrugged. "It might be for me. As long as you don't try to kill me."

Daud tilted his head. "Let's talk about it first. Come with us. It's not far."

"One moment." Thomas strode past, and one by one rolled the barrels into a small alleyway. Locating a discarded tarp, he covered them over. Daud watched him. "Why did you screw the Brand over?"

Thomas straightened, looked Daud in the eye. "The wine in those barrels were made by slaves of the Atherton family. They get paid shit. I was hoping to return them to the workers in their vineyards. Give them something to trade with."

Daud nodded. "Sounds…virtuous."

Thomas nodded sheepishly. "And foolish."

"Not so foolish." Daud beckoned to him, and the three made their way down the alleyway. "You may just fit right in."

"How's that?"

Daud side-eyed him, and rubbed the back of his left hand absently. "You're interesting."


	2. Vladko

He would endure.

Vladko always endured.

He remembered when the heady days of his youth had come to an end, spending time in the frozen straits of Tyvia, trying to eke out a living from the savage waters and the even more savage coast. Frost bears, vikas, sunfish, the whales; he'd seen them all, bled them all out on the deck of his trawler. Knee deep in guts and brine, he had laughed, even as his crew stared at him and made warding signs. He'd laughed, because life was cruel and the sea was hungry and the more time you spent happy the better, because who knew what tomorrow would bring?

Vladko knew what tomorrow had brought. Tomorrow had brought treachery. Mutiny. By the likes of men who had thought him mad, even as they plied waters filled with creatures whose hearts were colder than the furthest peaks of the homeland. Vladko had done what no other man had the spine to do. To teach them fear. Fear of the spear, and of the man wielding it.

If he found any of the bastards who had turned him in again, he would spit them on a harpoon and lower them into a shark's maw, even as they bled out and screamed. The thought brought a smile to his chapped lips.

He was startled out of his memories by the familiar sound of a whip cracking in his ear. Hot blood ran down his neck, but was swiftly cooled by the bitter wind. Soon it would congeal and form a gummy surface, like so many times before.

Vladko turned with difficulty from where he was seated, the splintered bench where his arm chains were shackled to his oar, and cast the culprit a ferocious glare. The man was weak, but loved to abuse the rowers when he was bored. A man like that on his ship would have been tossed overboard.

But, like so many other times, the man had moved on down the galleon, to torment some other poor scoundrel. Vladko gritted his teeth. He did not like being ignored. He would have the man stare at him, jeer, anything, so long as he knew that Vladko Orikos was on this fetid asshole of a ship.

He was going to kill that man, he decided, and told the man beside him.

The young, brown-skinned man gaped at him with broken teeth and jabbered something in his savage tongue. Sniffing in disgust, Vladko turned away and set his mind to rowing. The others would complain and wail of the harshness of their labours, but the waters around the capital of the Isles were like those of a millpond compared to the breakers off The Sorrow in Tyvia. He would endure.

Time passed-as much as it could for the denizens of the hold. Through the tiny porthole, he saw the faint orange of the setting sun, and a tiny slice of land on the far horizon, but he ignored it, just as he ignored the groaning, wheezing, croaking oarslaves around him. Their journey of weeks would soon be over, and he would trade this floating prison for one made of walls and steel. Till then, he would grip the salt-stained wood, ignore the fresh blisters oozing from his palms, and fucking row.

Eventually, however, the call came down from the upper deck, that they were to cease rowing. The engine would be used to guide them into port. Vladko hunched over his oar, unwilling to relinquish his grip. He imagined it was his old whaling club, sturdy and heavy. But instead of the grunts of wild things, he imagined the screams of the whip man as his limbs were broken.

Another smile, another wince in the stench-filled darkness of the lower deck. They had not been taken outside in days, and the clammy air was becoming less of a nuisance and more a struggle. He felt his other limbs atrophying, becoming dull with disuse. Soon he'd be pushed and shoved down city streets. Idly, he wondered how many would survive the journey. Three had died on this voyage alone. The slavers had not been happy about that at all.

He heard the tramp of boots, and let his head drop. He head learned much from over-talkative crew members who had come down to the lower deck. Perhaps they would furnish him with more information.

"It's a load of fucking shit, "one whispered hotly, without preamble. "Mooring fees are bad enough, but tariffs? Over fucking slaves? This city'll bleed us dry of half our profit before we so much as get a chance to kiss the dirt!"

"Next time take a moment to listen, "his companion said calmly. "The captain's taking us out of the way. Dodging the usual scrape-and-shift. We'll be keeping all of our coin on this journey."

"He can do that? Last I heard this place had fucking patrol boats!"

"They're thinned on this side. Rudshore District ain't what it was."

"What? Why's that?"

"Come up here and I'll tell you…"

To Vladko's annoyance, the two men proceeded upstairs. He would learn nothing more sitting down here.

"Rudshore, oh by the Outsider's eyes…"

A querulous voice behind him. Not bothering to turn (he'd tried that once and it had hurt like a bitch), he spoke aloud. "What is this Rudshore district? Why is it of significance?"

He heard the man stutter, and ground his teeth. Did he think, perhaps, that Vladko was some half-wit who could not speak coherently? Ignoring the pain, he twisted his head around and snarled. "Speak, you idiot!"  
The man, a skinny wasted thing, spoke in a rush. "Th-the sailors told of a place where the sea wall had broken and the waters swept through. R-Rudshore is the place! It's nothing but ruin and evil things!"

"Be quiet, "Vladko said shortly, turning back. Already he was musing on this new information. A flooded district? Now that would prove interesting. How many would drown in the waters? He would not be among them.

He craned his neck, so that he might see out of the porthole, but night was fast approaching and the only light to see by was from the pale moon that shone over the city. The waves were lit up with an eerie glow, and he frowned. This was a fell night by any man's standards. He would almost have preferred to go via the docks, and chanced the city streets. _This city is ill with something._

A clattering on the stairs, and a face swung into view. Vladko saw that it was his tormenter, and bared his teeth. "Hold tight there, you miserable pieces of shit!" the man squawked, rubbing his nose. "We're coming in to dock!" He vanished from view. Another missed opportunity.

_I will kill that man. I will crush his nose and pull the lips off his face so he cannot grin any more. I will break his thumb and then his finger and all the other fucking fingers he owns, and then all of his toes, and then I will find a skinning knife and cut his-_

_Whumph!_

The galleon came to an abrupt stop as something below the water punched into the bottom of the hull and held them in place. The noise of the engine became a distressed whine and black smoke began to wisp into the hold. Amid the terrified shouts of the oarslaves, strained to hear what was going on upstairs.

"What the fuck-"

"Somebody get below!"

"What did we hit?"

"Must've been a reef or something!"

A reef? This close to shore? Madness. The men above were fools. So were the men below, down here with him. It was far more likely, Vladko reflected, that whatever had stalled their passage, had been a deliberate act of sabotage. Someone wanted this ship, and its cargo too.

He settled back, and kept his eyes trained on the porthole. They were not far from shore now, between fifty and one hundred strokes of the oar now. He could see the ruined buildings, their paint dry and flaking away, and curled his lip in disgust.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"  
He whirled, to see a man standing in the aisle, just beside his oarlock. His partner shrieked in sudden fear, so Vladko elbowed him sharply in the ribs. "Stupid savage," he muttered. He took another look at the man who had appeared as if from nowhere. The other oarslaves whispered amongst themselves, and many made warding signs.

Clad in a thick, black tunic, complete with boots and pouches, he looked like any other man prepared to brave the elements. What made him different was the goggled leather mask he wore, strapped to his face. Vladko felt his skin crawl as the two shiny black circles came to rest upon him.

"Dunwall looks good on a night like this," the man mused. The mask muffled his words, made him sound like an old lag whose lungs were about to expire. "Anyway. Stay quiet, and soon you'll be free of those chains." The man drew a wide-bladed sword from his hip, and held up a gloved finger. "Shh."

Vladko stared at the man calmly. "What is your name?"

"Thomas."

Vladko nodded. "Thomas. Know that if you strike down the man with red hair and the long nose, I will kill you."

Thomas cocked his head, then laughed lowly. "Fair enough. Not like me to get in the way of a healthy argument. I'll leave him." He raised his sword, and proceeded towards the stairs. "The rest we kill."

"We?" asked a hush voice.

The sound of an explosion, and the shocked screams of men. Then strange noises like the snapping of sailcloth, and the sounds of men being gutted. Thomas had brought friends, evidently.

"To arms, men!" the captain shouted. "To arms-" Then a yell, and the sound of a splash. Vladko pressed his eye to the porthole, and watched the captain of the ship gurgle as the sea pulled him under. He cackled with delight. _May the whales gnaw on your bones, fucker._

After about a minute, the sounds of fighting subsided, and boots sounded on the stair. The oarslaves began yelling in fear, knowing whatever doom visited upon those upstairs was coming for them. Vladko merely stared, waiting.

"Quiet!" a voice rang out, and Vladko frowned. That sounded like a woman. A woman had killed the crew? That seemed unlikely…

Two figures descended the steps, and walked slowly down the aisle, eyes scanning the oarslaves. In the dim light, their features were hard to make out, but one was definitely with a woman, with skin the colour of dusk. The other was a man, a scar the only noticeable aspect of his face.  
"This all of them, then?" the man asked in a hoarse whisper.

"Full complement." The woman tutted. "Malnourished and overworked. They won't last a week."

"Hmm." The man looked around. "Where's the one Thomas spoke of?"

Vladko spoke up at this point, not wishing to leave his fate in the hands of a masked stranger. "I am he. I am Vladko Orikos and I have business with the last crewmember."

The woman laughed softly, while the man grinned in the darkness. "Vladko Orikos, a pleasure to make your acquaintance. What did that man do to you?"

"He whipped and tormented slaves. He withheld bread and drink, and was responsible for the deaths of three. He stole, he was lazy, he was argumentative. He did not wash. He argued with his captain. He was small-minded and sadistic. I want to kill him."

"Huh. Fair enough." The man bent, and, with a flourish, produced a key. He unlocked the savage's chains, then Vladko's. "You're free to go."

Vladko stood for the first time in days, and rolled his neck. The skin around his wrists were badly chafed, but damn it felt good to stand again. As the brown-skinned man gabbled and carped in his own tongue, no doubt gushing thanks, the man nodded to his subordinate. "See to the rest. Get them on deck."

As the dark-skinned woman set about freeing the other oarslaves (one made to kiss her and received a black eye for his trouble), Vladko glared at the man. "Who are you and why do you do this?"

"My name is Daud," the man replied dryly. "I do this because slavery is a nasty business and we could use more recruits."

"We?" Behind them, an older man collapsed to the deck and lay still, panting. The woman simply stepped over him and continued her liberation. A steady stream of freed slaves were proceeding to the upper deck, many still dazed and confused.

"My followers and I. We're few in number." The man held out a hand, in a gesture of speculation. "We need strong men and women who are willing to fight."

Vladko sniffed at this….Daud's feeble attempt to win him over. "I do not think you are what I am looking for in a leader. Your second is a woman. What do you expect to gain from her?"

Vladko said no more, because a sword tip had come to rest neatly below his left eye. The woman in question was holding it. "I was going to ask you the same question," she said coldly. "But right now…" The tip retreated, but then came to rest against his groin. "You stand to lose more than you gain."

"Billie," Daud said.

She hissed, and sheathed her blade. "Just try me, you shit, "she warned Vladko, and proceeded towards the stairs. Most of the oarslaves were gone already.

Vladko rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. So the woman had fire. The man was cunning, and from the look of him, had seen his share of violence. "You are prepared to do whatever to survive, "he said to Daud. _Even risk a woman at his side._

"I am," Daud said evenly.

"Then perhaps I will consider your offer." Vladko nodded to the stairs. "But for now…" He picked a stray pipe from the floor and hefted it. "I am going to beat that man to a pulp."

Vladko was still confused about a great many things. He did not know this city. He did not know why this man, Daud, was looking for followers. He did not know how a woman had came to be his trusted and first mate. But right now, that didn't matter.

Vladko was just happy to be getting his payback.


End file.
